Saying Sorry
by Adelaide E
Summary: Ron Weasley, it must be admitted, has a great deal to learn about the opposite sex. How fortunate that one member of the opposite sex is willing to teach with excess volume him to say the most important words of self preservation.


Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, etc…here borrowed for non-profit, purely entertainment reasons.

Author's notes: This is something that takes liberal artistic license with the characters, those characters' professors, and the workings of their school. Something that insisted to be written before I went craaaazzzyyy…

Saying Sorry

By Adelaide E

xoxox

Ronald Weasley knew just when to back away from Exploding Snap. He knew just when to pull up his broom, and therefore avoid a lovely landing in a pile of splinters, because he knew that it was a little slow on turns. He knew when to smile, one part forlorn, three parts hopeful, at his mother, when she appeared so volatile with anger he feared for her health. He knew when to pester his older brothers, when to protect his younger sister, and how to glare at a garden gnome so that it would never, ever, _ever _again send such a dirty look to his dear mater.

But he did not, for the life of him, for all the freckles on his tall, clumsy body, know how to apologise to Hermione Granger, long time best friend and newly acquired girlfriend.

It should have been easy. She was kind enough to give him instructions.

"Just admit you're a bloody idiot and give me the best apology your Neanderthal mind can produce! Right now!"

And, though grateful for such guidance, Ron, who had been standing the common room—before an absurdly large audience of Gryffindors, it should be mentioned, all of whom, he was quite certain, were ready to judge his response as a merit of his bravery—had chosen his own creative way of dealing with his error.

"The day I apologise to you is the day the house elves stage a coup d'état, burning all your preciously ugly tokens of liberation in gratitude."

It shouldn't have made him feel a smidgen manlier that a good number of Gryffindors—all right, the boys, mostly—smiled at his acerbic retort. It should also be noted—though Ron liked to ignore the fact—that the female half of his fellow house mates gasped in evident disgust.

"Then I hope you'll be encouraging such rebellion quite soon," she snapped with enough virulence to make him step back. It was simply an unfortunate coincidence that Crookshanks happened to be directly behind him, and his foot landed on the poor feline's tail.

Hermione had reacted as if Ron had done _her_ bodily harm.

"I am never speaking to you again!" Hermione roared, gathering her books to retire to her room.

It was, quite possibly, the worst thing he had ever heard in his life. There had been similar threats, similar glares, and similar twirl-on-heel-toss-hair-airily-scowl-menacingly exits. But this was different. They were together now—finally—and somehow, her saying those familiar words made Ron feel as if he'd never smile again.

His eyes darted left and right, just in case some rogue Dementor had found its cloying way into the Gryffindor Tower.

But, instead of seeing the dark robed demons, Ron's eyes spotted Harry. Harry, who was merely frowning in his usually irritated way. Harry wanted one of them—Ron, preferably, since Ron was in the wrong—to capitulate, so that he wouldn't have to deal with days of muttered insults and outright quibbling. Ron's side ways glance spied Seamus, grinning, arms crossed, as if to say, "Go on. It's only a matter of time." Ron's nervous observation included Colin Creevy, and his bright eyes calculating the growing distance between Ron Weasley and his irate girlfriend. As if they were timing just how many steps Hermione would take before Ron dashed up, and grabbed her hand, and begged for forgiveness as he inevitably slid down the smooth stair case.

Bloody hell. Even the girls bore the same expression! At least a dozen girls, all of whom possessed different upbringing, background, and morals—and they all gave him a singularly exact look. Go to her, Ronald Weasley, for you are a man, and men are stupid.

He'd be damned if he would!

He'd be damned if he wouldn't.

_Aw hell._

"Fine!" He yelled, returning his gaze to the love of his life, his reason for smiling. Said reason had just reached the top of the stair case, her small back quite still as she waited to hear the rest. She didn't even deign to turn and face him! "Finally! That's the most agreeable thing you've said all night!"

It was so far from clever it was bordering on catatonic dumbness. But what his reply lacked in wit, it made up for in volume, and in mockery. Ron had managed to make his voice so cutting he barely recognised it.

There was a collective gasp, and Ron rolled his eyes. Didn't these students have anything better to do than watch one poor, idiotic bloke argue with his infallible girlfriend? Studying? Reading? Gryffindor-ing?

Still, for all his low opinions of his spectators, he couldn't help but grin, just a little bit, when Dean Thomas raised his eyebrows with a clearly impressed air. Harry's mouth had dropped open just a bit.

_Ha!_ He wanted to yell. _Ha! Didn't think I had it in me, did you? Well I do! Ronald Bilius Weasley is not a spineless, weak-willed idiot! He's—_

Hermione's shoulders suddenly shook.

_Oh dear._

Hermione's head bent, just ever so slightly.

_Oh my god._

And, before the twenty odd Gryffindor students below, Hermione Granger sniffled.

_Ronald Weasley_, he suddenly thought to himself, _is the world's biggest imbecile._ His Neanderthal mind immediately began to scrape for the right words of apology.

Then, because she was brilliant Hermione Jane Granger, her back stiffened, her shoulders squared, and her head jerked into a defiantly high position as she marched to her room. Even as he admired her poise, Ron could not help but hate her exit.

He wasn't entirely sure he was wrong in the matter, but he knew that his arguments had been less than sound.

Ron managed a few shuffled steps before leaning, face first, against a tapestry covered wall.

"Somebody kill me."

Ginny, who, unlike most of the dispersing members of the crowd, had witnessed the argument, was only too happy to comply. She was brandishing a rather large and heavy book near her oblivious brother when Harry caught her around the waist and set the menacing red head behind him.

"Hey! He deserves it!"

"I know he deserves it," Harry replied calmly, not bothering to face her, eyes trained on his moron of a best friend. "But then you'd be charged with fratricide. You'd probably inherit his jumpers as well, all of which you hate, and we'd have to hold try-outs in the middle of Quidditch season—"

"All right, all right. But Ron is clearly of sub-human intelligence, and such stupidity must be recognised in some way or other—"

Harry's hand shot out and cuffed the back of Ron's head. It was sheer bad luck that Ron had chosen the exact same moment to raise it, so that the force of Harry's palm sent his forehead jerking back against the hard, solid, and unforgiving wall.

"Ow!"

"Well done," Ginny approved, before moving away, as both males were becoming quite irked with her unnecessary comments.

"Why didn't you say sorry?" Harry demanded.

"Because then she'd win!" Ron stated as if it were obvious.

"Oh, and I suppose now you're the victor?" Harry demanded with an ironic rise of his eyebrows. "Bravo, Ron."

"I didn't mean to make her cry," Ron mumbled, turning so that he leaned morosely against the wall.

"Most boys don't," Harry agreed nonchalantly, leaning next to him. The pair looked a bit ridiculous, to be chatting so, when there were a number of empty seats to be had, but neither cared very much. Ron's entire mind was focused on his poor girlfriend upstairs, and Harry was worried as well. For Hermione, and Hermione's potions notes, which he had yet to copy and very much needed by tomorrow morning.

"Made Lavender Brown cry just the other day," Harry offered by way of comfort.

"Did you now?" Ron murmured, not at all interested, dark blue eyes narrowing as he tried to conjure just the right phrase for forgiveness. Hermione, in her spare time, liked to tell him about "classics", which were, she had said, her guilty pleasure. The ones that people forever quoted, the ones that the box offices exploded with…

Ron had no clue as to what the hell she was talking about, but listened indulgently any way. Now he was rather glad he had.

They sometimes lacked original plot, they sometimes lacked deep characters, and they sometimes lacked good "lighting."

But they were brimming, Hermione once said, with good lines. Lines that moved the soul, she told him, lines that inevitably tugged at the heart, no matter who you were. Muggle or wizard, man or woman, mature young girl or boy with the emotional range of a teaspoon…those lines, Hermione stated firmly, those lines stirred the soul with foreboding, longing, courage, and, most importantly, compassion. Ron desperately needed her compassion now.

At the moment, he tried to remember which ones always made her eyes tear up with sentimentality, and the ones that made her lips—he adored her lips—spread into a contagiously bright smile.

"Yes. Told her it was a stupid name. Told her 'Harry Potter' was ten times better than 'Lavender Brown.'"

"Course it is," Ron agreed, hands now clasping and unclasping as he racked his stupid, chauvinistic mind for a proper line. He did hate to use it—casting a movie line implied baiting, as if all he needed was a stupid, scripted declaration to catch the ignorant quarry. Chances were she'd scowl and scold him thoroughly for even muttering such inanely sappy words in her presence. But, maybe, hopefully, she'd appreciate the sentiment.

"I mean, come on. Lavender Brown? It's not a name, Ron. It's two colours. I told her so. I told her that it was a meaningless name. I said Harry Potter had character and did not—as she ridiculously interpreted it—bring to mind a large, hairy man whose lone occupation was to make pots."

"Large man," Ron echoed, now raising himself off the wall to pace. Harry did not seem to mind his friend's agitated manner, and only drew his legs back to give him room.

"_You complete me"_ was stupid. Hermione knew quite well that he was a fully equipped young man, and to say something like that would cause her to roll her eyes. Not to mention the fact that he had reverently said, in her presence, the nearly exact same words—"My life is wholly complete now!"—when the twins had given him a brand new broom last birthday. He had a vaguest notion that she'd remembered that.

"So I—only minorly sarcastic, mind you… Hell, I wouldn't even call it sarcasm. The emotion I used was the runt sister of irony… So I said to her, 'Hello, I am Magenta Puce, so pleased to meet you, please forgive my flimsy excuse of a name.' And the girl just burst into tears. Women."

"Women," Ron echoed.

"_But they'll never take our freedom!" _Ron rather liked the thought of roaring that. Made him feel empowered and ten feet tall. Still, he couldn't imagine that a war cry would persuade Hermione into forgiving him.

"How was I to know that Magenta was the name of her dead chipmunk? How was I to know that her cat, Puce, had eaten it? Hmm? It isn't as if every girl names her pets in honour of the rainbow!"

"_I'll never let go, Jack. I'll never let go."_ Now, there was an admirable sentiment. Hermione was sure to appreciate it. Except…well, it wasn't true. They let go of each other so many times it was a bit embarrassing. Just last week, he had carelessly released her hand to catch a paper ball Ernie Macmillan had thrown at him. How was he to know that she had been rather depending on his grip to support her, as she had been struggling with her books—thus sending her crashing into the ground?

Besides, just a few days before that, she had let go of him, right when he had taken her flying on his new broom, in a lesson that should have taught her, as he reassured her, there was no reason to fear flying. He had told her not to loosen her hold, hadn't he? Because, really, no matter how pretty the magical what's-it was, it was not worth catching for later study. Hermione learned that he was right—one of the few instances—as he sat by her bed in the hospital wing, lecturing her quite sternly on her safety procedures.

"Well, McGonagall had given me detention. Then, to make matters worse, she had given Brown a detention as well. In the middle of her sobs, Lavender managed to call me something uncalled for. Very uncalled for. I'll have her know my parents were married when they had me, thank you very much."

"_The one ring to rule them all…" _Right, so it was not remotely applicable to the situation. But Ron recalled how much he enjoyed her serious delivery of the words. Also, she declared it to be one of the best films ever made. While he did not doubt her—it would have taken stupidity of colossal proportions to doubt her—Ron decided against that choice. It would have most likely put marital ideas in her head, and the last thing he needed was another opportunity to be told off.

"Look, because I had detention," Harry said, straightening, "I couldn't meet with Hermione to copy her notes. And I thought I could get them now—except you had to go and make an arse out of yourself. Please find a way to reason with her?"

"_Go ahead, make my day."_ Wait. Had that line been delivered with a romantic sense? Because that would work, if it had, but Ron had never watched that movie, or any movie really, but Hermione said that her father enjoyed it—

Harry murmured scornfully to himself, "Large hairy man making pots…"

"Listen," Ron spoke up suddenly, with a tremendously serious expression on his angular face. "She definitely won't be speaking to me tonight. I'll try tomorrow morning, at breakfast."

"And if not then? We have advanced potions, you know. You can't exactly stage dramatics there."

"Like I'd want to," Ron snorted. He did not care in the least, though he did not mean to be callous, whether or not Harry copied Hermione's notes. There was something much more important here.

Oh, of course he knew that he'd probably never smile—nor laugh, nor enjoy life, nor ever feel complete— again if Hermione never spoke to him again. But that wasn't the point. The point was, Hermione was hurt. Hurt by him, the one boy who was supposed to protect her from emotional damage. True, with the broom incident in mind, he hadn't exactly fulfilled the pledge when it came to her physical being… It should have been easier to control his moronic mouth; he had more power over his own thoughts and actions than he had over gravity, after all. He liked to think that, after she had finally fallen for his charms and he had finally swam his way out of his love sick ignorance, he would make sure he'd never hurt her again.

And yet, damn. He had. In front of everybody.

xoxox

She wouldn't even see him at breakfast. Oh, she sat next to him, without so much as a glimpse in his direction, though not by choice. No other seat was available, and Hermione would have looked very silly sitting on Harry's lap while trying to consume her meal.

Tentatively, Ron pushed a full plate under her upturned nose, hoping she noticed that he had served her favourite foods, the two sunny-side up eggs, small triangle of cheese, and two strips of bacon arranged in a cheerful, culinary face. He just hoped that she didn't notice that the eggs were slightly raw, the cheese minorly uneven, and the bacon a bit burnt—he had been distracted, that's all.

How the hell was a man supposed to cook his girlfriend's breakfast with a million house elves hounding him every five seconds, wondering if they could be of any help?

Even Lavender—who had been giving the trio a rather cold shoulder for Harry's minor offense—was heard to audibly sigh at the thoughtfulness of Ron's gesture.

Ron was slightly crushed—though not surprised—when Hermione merely stabbed viciously into her meal's eyes, and then proceeded to skewer its bacon mouth. The cheese nose she left in peace, but only because she could no longer bear the horrified squeaks emitting from the surrounding, heart-touched girls. Ron was less offended by the reaction. Of course, of course, of course it would take more than some artfully arranged food to win Hermione's forgiveness. Her good opinion was worth more than that.

Her good opinion was worth more than bacon, cheese, and eggs.

It was worth…Ron sighed mournfully at his juice. It was worth some amount of danger.

xoxox

Only an hour later, Ron inhaled deeply and knocked on the door. He glanced left and right, as if finding some excuse in the darkened dungeons to run away. But there was nothing lurking in the shadows, and he squared his shoulders in what he hoped to be a confident fashion.

Snape had opened it so quickly Ron nearly fell back on his bum.

"Ronald Weasley," he sneered, somehow drawing the name out to make it sound like a slow, unmentionable swear word. Ron never really understood why Professor Severus Snape constantly felt the urge to sneer. Surely it was exhausting. But he did, that professor, he did sneer and at every opportunity. Ron thought that even with the simplest of things, Professor Snape said it with a twisted lip and disdainful expression. Even sneezing probably included some scornful drawling. "Ah…chee…yew…"

Ronald swallowed the urge to look down at himself in surprise, exclaiming, "No! Am I really?"

Instead he said, banishing the thoughts of sneering sneezes and sarcasm from his mind, "Yes…er…here." He thrust the folded parchment in the potions professor's hands, and fidgeted uncomfortably. Beyond Snape's shoulder, he could see some of the students craning to see the visitor.

"You volunteered to observe my class?" Professor Snape, of course, sneered.

"Yes, just for today. Professor Flitwick realised the strong connection between today's charms lesson and your potions lessons…" Well, he hadn't so much realised it…but Ron was certain his professor would have agreed. Weasley simply hadn't time to ask his professor's opinion on the matter while he was stealing Professor Flitwick's stationary, and then forging his signature, and then faking illness to leave class. Ron had scribbled the first credible reason that came to mind. Now that he spoke it aloud, he knew the stupid idea was as tenuous as a Slytherin's word of honor.

But, it did bear Professor Flitwick's signature, written with Professor Flitwick's special quill, upon Professor Flitwick's stationary.

Ron had the faintest notion he'd pay for his deception later, when Snape questioned the matter personally, and then decided he did not care.

"Thank you, Weasley, but I read that for myself." With that, Snape turned away and walked back into the class. His robes billowed as he did so. That was Snape in a nutshell, Ron realised. Sneering and billowing. It was what he was born to do.

Because he hadn't slammed the door in his face, Ron took his action to be a consent, and quickly made his way to Hermione's bent head. He hadn't even bothered to wave at Harry, and he pointedly ignored the expressions of disgust from the Slytherins. He even managed, while he scurried, to avoid Parkinson's suddenly outstretched leg. He guessed the mission of pleasing Hermione made him somewhat agile.

Brown had been sitting next to Hermione.

"Move," Ron whispered quickly.

"What?" Merlin's arse, the girl clearly did not understand the rules of whispering! If he whispered urgently, then Brown should have whispered urgently as well. _Not_ asking "What?" in an absurdly loud voice.

"Move," he whispered, louder and angrier.

"Why?"

Ron made lowering motions with his hands, in an effort to quiet Brown's tone and to keep them from throttling this stupid girl's neck.

"I want to sit next to Hermione," he told her, eyes darting to Snape, who was writing something on the board. He noticed with a slight frown that even his handwriting suggested sneering.

"Don't move," Hermione suddenly whispered, eyes not even acknowledging Ron's presence. Instead, her chocolate gaze rested solely on Lavender. "Stay right where you are."

"I don't know…" Lavender whispered doubtfully, and Ron bit his knuckles. The action was definitely needed. _Now_ she whispered? Did the rules of whispering only apply to other females?

"Oh for the…" Ron was about to swear, and watched Lavender Brown's eyes narrow expectantly. He sighed and closed his eyes. Hadn't he lied enough this morning to guarantee him a ticket to hell? Did he have to make himself appear a sentimental fool while he was at it?

Then again, he had threatened the poor, defenseless house elves, _broken into_ their kitchen, burnt his girlfriend's breakfast as well as his _fingers_, _stolen_ from one of the nicest professors, committed paltry _forgery_, deviously_ snuck_ into the worst class in Hogwarts history…all in the single effort to have Hermione smile again.

All right. He had past the "sentimental fool" stage eons ago. He was probably a certifiable nutter by now.

"For the sake of love," he whispered, now on his knees, the hard stone floor rather harsh on his bones, "please move." The position hid him from Snape's eyes, should the greasy old bat deign to see how his guest student was faring, but it also, unintentionally, added to the effect. Lavender sighed so loudly Ron imagined it must have blown a new part in his hair, and then rose from her seat to sit in the nearest available spot.

"Go away."

"Won't," was his brilliant argument. Ron rolled his eyes and smacked his palm to his head. Oh, wasn't he a smooth talker?

Hermione misinterpreted his gesture to be one of irritation. "I didn't ask you to come here."

"Very good point," he replied, aiming for flattery.

He missed the target entirely. "Then shut up and let me work. Don't say a word."

Hermione, he decided, spent entirely too much in this class. That last four-word sentence had been stretched out in a disturbingly Snape-like sneering manner.

"All right," he agreed, and then winced when he realised he already failed at that. "I'll stop now," he added, and then winced again. "Okay, definitely going to—"

Her sharpened quill—accidentally, he was quite certain—narrowly missed his hand, which had been resting on the desk. He hushed immediately.

"Ronald Weasley," Snape suddenly called out.

Now, was that really necessary? Surely there was no other Ronald in this class. Why did he always have to say his last name, as if Ron would cringe by the sound of it? Perhaps he should have informed the professor that, really, he didn't mind it, because he had been called Ronald Weasley all his life, and was very much accustomed to the phonetics of it—

"I was under the impression you'd be taking notes."

"Of course," Ronald agreed, ears burning red, scrambling to produce some parchment and a quill from the folds of his robes.

His heart skipped a beat or two—something that normally would have sent him into a fit of alarm over his physical health—when Hermione, still maintaining her icy demeanor, calmly slid a bit of parchment his way.

To him. Ron, who refused to hold the door for her when they were giving each other silent treatments. Ron, who refused to say "Bless you" when she sneezed during those stilted, argumentative periods.

Clearly, she could do far better than him.

And yet…Ron tilted his head as he stared at her. And yet she chose _him_.

"I love you," he said quite suddenly, and, truth be told, quite accidentally. If he had known he was going to say _that_, he would have lowered his voice, would have gently grasped her hand, would have at least waited for a private room… But no. His mouth had to go and declare things without his consent, and now here he was, clutching the parchment to his chest as if it were his first born, smiling sheepishly at Hermione.

Distantly, he thought he heard Lavender squeal, "Oh dear, that's so romantic!" and Harry respond with "Shut up woman, you're deafening me." But he didn't care.

"That qualifies as a word," Hermione hissed, trying desperately to ignore the retching noises issued from the Slytherins' side of the room.

"Three, if you want to be technical," Ron chirped as he scribbled nonsense for appearance's sake. He was not only happy that Hermione was speaking to him, but also, by some miracle, Snape had not heard his maudlin proclamation.

"I want to be silent," Hermione snapped, and returned her attention to her scribbled parchment.

Ron bit his lip. All right. Silent. Two could play at that game…

He calmly flattened the parchment on the desk, and began to write in earnest. The rest of the class was busy writing down Snape's criteria, and then attempting, frantically, to jot the many ingredients he listed.

Towards the end of the otherwise uneventful class period, Ron innocently nudged the parchment in Hermione's direction. She did not take it, just as he expected. But because she was Hermione Granger, and had to read anything written down since the dawn of mankind, her eyes surreptitiously slid side ways to scan the messily scrawled words.

**Top Ten Reasons Ronald Weasley was Wrong during Last Night's Row **

**1. Hermione Granger is a very smart girl.**

**2. "Because I said so" is not, as common consent states, a feasible argument.**

**3. Because you said so is, and will always be, a feasible argument.**

**4. There is probably a Hufflepuff somewhere in my ancestry, thus explaining my unthinkable loyalty to my own gender's good opinions.**

**5. Hermione Granger is a very beautiful girl.**

**6. There is probably a Ravenclaw somewhere in your ancestry, thus explaining your unerring habit of being right.**

**7. Hermione Granger is the only girl worth making lists for.**

**8. Mum says always agree with you.**

**9. If Ronald Weasley was correct, that would mean that Hermione Granger was wrong, which is patently untrue, for the occurrence of "Hermione Granger being wrong" merits the event of hell freezing over. I don't know if you've noticed it, but I think we're enjoying fine weather.**

**10. Of course the egg came before the chicken. I don't know why I ever suggested otherwise.**

**10a. If all else fails, please remember, darling, dearest, heart of my hearts Hermione…E.T. phone home. (Will that do??? You always smile when you say that)**

**Yours sincerely, truly, forever and ever and ever, or at least until you chuck me to the side,**

**Ronald Weasley.**

Her eyes dropped further down, and sighed with resigned tolerance. She supposed he couldn't help but doodle and write nonsense while he had been churning out reasons:

**Chudley Cannons rule! **

**(Not as much as Hermione Granger rules, naturally, but the rule-ness of the Chudley Cannons must be recognised as often as possible.)**

Hermione had frowned in confusion when she read the last reason, or rather, the extension of the last reason. Her lips twitched, so slightly Ron thought it was his imagination, as she corrected it, calmly advising him in the margins to avoid putting prepositions at the end of a sentence, and writing multiple punctuation endings. She slowly smiled, reluctantly at first, but with obvious pleasure, when Snape dismissed the class. And, while the students poured into the hall way, Hermione clasped his hand and stood on her tip toes to kiss him soundly, thoroughly, and blissfully.

Ronald Weasley had never been happier after an apology. None of the usual feelings came; humiliation, anger, some bitterness…No. Somehow, the genius that was his girlfriend had found a way to make apologising undeniably enjoyable. He immediately forgot his next class, her full schedule, and slid his hands around her waist to kiss her so enthusiastically that she giggled against his mouth. He decided, then and there, that he would say sorry more often.

Much more often.

xoxox

The end.


End file.
